


Anchor Point

by CarnalCoffeeBean



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Identity stuff, Younger Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 10:18:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16490702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarnalCoffeeBean/pseuds/CarnalCoffeeBean
Summary: Lesson One of Thieving, Peter: long cons are dangerous. Make sure you’ve got an anchor point, so you don’t lose who you are, what you’re after.





	Anchor Point

Edgar Pinuno takes off the mask, and Perseus Shah smiles in delight at the lines, the colors, the outfit, the beauty that was, 'til recently, him. He cradles his chin in one hand, allows himself the luxury of a moment to look, just look. Flicks a dangling earring, laughs gently at the delicate, tinkling sound. His eyes catch on the movement in the mirror, gems swaying back and forth, light playing on the many facets. He looks—a little longer.

 

Apollo Sythe takes off the mask; Baron Evergreen stares a little, sighs. Pushes his hair back from his forehead. Regrets dying it such an atrocious color, but well, it was worth it in the end, he supposes. He frowns, turns away.

 

Phillip Souverain takes off the mask. Tyrone Imperator sneers at the face in the mirror, laughs at it, a little unkindly. Or a lot—who’s counting? Traces a new scar near his eye. He’ll have to get that fixed, and soon.

 

Kav Ren takes off the mask, and Quincey Count sniffs at their reflection. Rubs a thumb across an eyebrow, smears off some of the tint. Wipes the residue on a towel. Keeps looking, perfecting.

 

T’agavory Brenth takes off the mask. Pokes at his ears, turns in profile.

 

Pasha Lakis takes off the mask. Licks his lips, pouts.

 

Errege Rothless takes off the mask. Giggles a little.

 

Duke Rose takes off the mask. Doesn’t look.

 

Krai Visini takes off the mask.

 

Edric Gaskell takes off the mask.

 

Rei Kuhn takes off the mask.

 

Hari Minchiello takes off the mask.

 

Vorst Mischal takes off the mask John Pravitko takes off the mask Jaqar Goldsong takes off the mask Rex Glass takes off the mask Alan Brimflod takes off the mask Matthew Sweetbluth takes off the mask Lee Vonalzo takes off the mask Jack Chance takes off the mask Jerry Little takes off the mask—  

 

Wait.

 

No.

 

No, he doesn’t.

 

He—doesn’t.

 

Fingers trace down the sides of his face. Mapping. Quiet. Jerry’s always been quiet. First long-term mask after—well. First in a series of long, unending masks; messy, fond doodles of a life jotted down in the quiet moments between someone else and Mag, thinking of what could’ve been, expanding on ideas, thoughts, bigger and smaller things. Daydreamed details reached for blindly with bloodstained hands, grabbed and pulled over someone else’s face amidst grief and panic and a breathless, bile-in-your-mouth, no-thought command of get out get out **_get out_ ** —  

 

It’s paper-thin, this one—tissue, really. Touch it, and it’ll break. One stroke, one push...

 

The fingers drop to his sides.

 

Jerry’s always been careful. A little flighty, perhaps, but nothing too bad, nothing that’ll keep him from doing his job on, say, the first freighter out of a world on the cusp of war, whether internal or external anyone’s guess.

 

Jerry notices things, too—when the food’s getting low, when people are looking askance at those in unimportant positions, when annoyance turns to frustration turns to anger turns to—

 

Well. He’s good at getting when the going gets tough, is Jerry.

 

Jerry’s a coward, so he doesn’t trace the sides of the mask, find where the skin meets the soul and pull. It must be someone else, then, someone whose name Jerry's traced with a shaky finger in the dark, in his bunk, on the cold metal hull of the space freighter. Someone whose name hangs, a weight strung between his ribs, some cold days, brought on by—a glimpse of a white-haired man, a snippet of a tune in a park, a smell of long-forgotten spices on a breeze, a child with too-hungry eyes—he’s there, he’s there, screaming, muffled through strata of time and grief and muscle and bone, small and coiled and throbbing like a heartbeat, burning to get out. Someone big and bold and brave enough for the entire damn galaxy, someone—someone everyone could’ve heard of, if things had been ...

 

Someone else gets tired of looking at the watchful, quiet eyes of Jerry and pulls off the mask—  carefully, delicately, inch by inch. Jerry’s useful, after all, gotten him out of a lot of scrapes. It’s just a moment—just a look, just to see for himself if someone else is still there after all this time, if it’s not just memories, self-defense mechanisms, dried blood, dust.

 

A blink, a breath, and then—the bathroom mirror. He looks up. Wastes no time putting on his glasses. His fingers have an elegance that only he, of any of his faces, possesses. He chose that, Peter Nureyev. Every other guise so far—  fidgety, flicking, unmoving, clumsy, clawed, awkward. Perhaps it’s childish to save it only for himself but, well, it’s not hurting anyone yet.

 

Peter Nureyev takes a moment, in the quiet of the room—the first quiet moment he’s gotten, it seems, in five years of running, running as fast and as far as he can, running _from_ shifting into running _towards_ , so soft and gradual that he hadn’t noticed until… well, until now, really. When he had a chance to—to breathe, to think, to make sure Peter Nureyev isn’t a ghost that haunts him occasionally, is real and flesh and blood and bleeding heart, face and memories and thoughts aligned. Lesson One of Thieving, Peter: long cons are dangerous. Make sure you’ve got an anchor point, so you don’t lose who you are, what you’re after.

 

If your anchor point’s an unwelcome ghost, then what does that make you? wonders Peter. He shoves the thought inside a tiny little box—no time to examine it—and doesn’t look back. Feels better, somehow. It’s a very Peter Nureyev thing to do, after all, both the wondering and the shunting aside. He’s starting to recognize himself now, released, expanding, sprawled across this body—small movements, certain ways of thinking, flex and reflex, a tilt of his chin, a set of his brow, a putting aside of things to be taken care of later. When things are safer, more settled.

 

He tests his voice, its cadence, its tone. It’s not quite what it was; Jerry’s is a little lower, a little more rusted, well-worn. He’s been using that one for about three months now, just for this trip. No Brahmese accent, though. That’s… good. It’s good. He tastes the words, “Peter Nureyev,” the near-familiar syllables on his tongue. He feels them through, rolls them around his mouth like the Venusian wine Vorst Mischal had sampled a year or so ago in the guise of a busboy, while he was staking out an art gallery. Doesn’t put breath to voice; doesn’t dare, not even in here. It’s too risky. Likely always will be.

 

Jerry’d gone off the star freighter to see a tourist trap on the moon they were docked at, for the moment. The captain’s a good woman, no-nonsense, not one to raise a fuss over much, runs a tight ship. Dealings might not always be on the legal side, but Jerry doesn’t mind, so long as he gets paid.

 

For the first time in a long time, Peter Nureyev smiles as he checks his suitcase of assorted and sundry goods he’s managed to stow away for the past few months on the ship. The captain’d had a taste for the finer lifestyle, and the ship’s been to places he’d not yet hoped to dream of, each lovelier than the last, most with a surprising amount of valuables just. Lying around. It was for practice, mostly. That, and fencing these will mean he can go after something—something big. Something really big. Maybe even Vespa-and-Buddy big.

 

He nods at himself, satisfied that all’s well, then—lingers. Exists a moment, as Peter. Lets himself feel, react, _be_. Enjoys the sight of his hard-earned work, arranged just so before him. Thinks ahead to the meeting, the next con. Jerry’d already told the captain goodbye, left on good terms, and he’s got his next passport papers ready with him.

 

Peter Nureyev breathes, in and out, slow. One, two, one, two. Graceful hands smooth his hair back into place, check the lines of his suit for wrinkles. A wry eyebrow lifts, and he reaches towards the mirror’s glass, fingertips pressing like it’s liquid, like he could push through—

 

Edric Gaskell puts on the mask, eyes somber in the dim light of the rented room. He picks up a comms unit, dials. Listens, unsmiling. Cleans his glasses with the tail end of a shirt he untucks for the aesthetic (that’s the kind of man Edric Gaskell is, a little messy, someone else thinks; Edric’s still new in the list of guises, needs a bit of a lead to get into).  He presses a button; the call ends, and he pockets the comms. Edric locks up the suitcase, double-checks the plasma knife hidden in his left coat pocket (not Edric’s style, but someone else is much better with them, so it’ll have to do for now), and meets his own eyes in the mirror.

 

Someone else looks back, for a split second, and winks; Edric strides out the door, grasp on the suitcase handle firm, if a bit clumsy, ready to seal the deal and head out, to the stars.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to yell at me about TPP, please come do so at mobydicks.tumblr.com.


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